


Taking in Strays

by MeAndTheBoys



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cute, Dogs, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Seriously a lot of dogs, Silly, So Many Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeAndTheBoys/pseuds/MeAndTheBoys
Summary: Will finds yet another stray and Hannibal, though outwardly uncertain, is more than happy to welcome the mutt into their growing family.





	Taking in Strays

“His name is Woodruff,” Will said, crouched down next to the dog. His hand was nestled in the animal's curly black fur, attention fixated on the brand new store-bought collar as he held the reflective silver name tag between his fingers. Hannibal stood just a few paces behind them. Looming and observing. He raised a single brow as he watched Will, focused on the man’s fingers as they combed through the dog’s thick hair, stopping to scratch thoughtfully along the mutt’s jaw line. 

Behind them, the door rattled. 

“It’s the strangest thing,” Will continued, “the collar...it’s new. He’s been recently bathed, I mean, he smells of soap, and the name tag is flawless.” As he spoke, he fingered the small ring keeping the tag hooked onto the collar. “There’s a name and no number. Who neglects to put their number on the tag?” 

The door rattled again and Hannibal turned his head in its direction, frowning. 

“They’re going to scratch the door,” he stated. Will laughed, still crouched at eye level, petting the dog. “The door’s already scratched,” he replied, finally looking up at Hannibal whose look of distaste had since been replaced with a small conceding smile. 

If it were his choice and only his life, Hannibal would have no dogs. His doors would be without scratches and both his furniture and trousers would be without hair. The floors would be spotless and, when he cooked, he wouldn’t be performing for an audience of hungry hounds. His home would be silent save his selected music. Wine glasses could be left on low level tables without the fear of happy tails knocking them over. 

But Hannibal had chosen Will. 

So he lived with the scratches and the fur, the persistent state of mild messiness, the noise, and the cautious placement of glassware. He’d chosen Will, so he lived with the dogs. All nine of them. Several from before Will and Hannibal had moved in together, before they’d run off to Florence and made a life. The rest, one by one, had been purchased and placed to be found by Will when their relationship was fraught with tension or negativity. 

Like roses and chocolate, fine wine and dinner dates, these dogs were the small means by which Hannibal, the nameless benefactor, expressed his affection. 

First it was Amelia who muddied Will’s back seat two days after Hannibal brought a guest home for dinner. Then Stanton, the smallest of their constantly growing pack, who’d been found tied by rope to a tree on Will’s morning walk the day after Hannibal said that he couldn’t stop. Killing was a part of him and his palette was used to a certain flare that beef, no matter how well prepared, wouldn’t satisfy. A magnificent gusto that pork and lamb and veal could never stand up against. A month later, Will had stumbled upon Halsted while fishing, three days after Hannibal suggested that he join him in that act of butchering the meat for the weekend’s feast. 

Two days ago, Will had done it.

And now they had Woodruff. The first dog that Hannibal had named himself. A dog delivered due to Hannibal’s profound sense of pride in Will’s actions.

Their overseas journey in personal development had culminated in a beautiful baptism by blood, stains on his linens that Hannibal could cherish and appreciate. Perhaps the games and the manipulation weren’t healthy but Will had always needed that extra push, a little guidance to reach his full potential. Hannibal was always there to do just that and it hadn’t taken much. When the dinner guest had learned of his fate he came at Hannibal with a knife, crazed look in his eyes, pupils blown wide from Hannibal’s previously administered sedative, as he flung himself across the table. Hearing the commotion, his heart blighted by the knowledge of what Hannibal was doing, Will darted down the acacia hardwood stairs. His feet skated against the slick surface and, hands pressing against the beige walls of the corridor, he braced himself to stop his slide. Then he rounded the corner only to see the silver knife, handcrafted kitchenware they’d picked out together, sink into Hannibal’s leg.

Without thinking, Will grabbed the large chef’s knife from the beef platter and drew it across the man’s throat. 

The next morning Hannibal was crouched down in front of the black haired water dog, examining him through the dirty wire of the kennel door. The smell of feces and cheap animal food assaulted his sensitive nostrils. Satisfied with his selection Hannibal went to the desk, offering a fairly large sum of money to skip the paperwork, and then left with the dog in tow. 

It was clear that this method would not work forever but the dogs were a distraction. An easy way for Will to cope with what he was becoming and provide him with a sense of moral well being. They didn’t veil his transformation. They didn’t lie about what was happening. But they allowed Hannibal to ensure that Will did not lose himself in the process without appearing obviously concerned.

“Where did you find this one?” Hannibal asked, still watching the door, the rest of their family excitedly insisting upon meeting the new addition. Will stared, smirking knowingly until Hannibal’s gaze switched from the door back to the dog. Then he replied, “By the school, I spotted him in the garage on my way out. I asked around and no one had seen anything.” 

Nodding, Hannibal began to walk to the kitchen. “I’ll prepare dinner.”

“They really can just eat kibble, you know. It seems a bit much to do this every night,” Will insisted, knowing that his effort was fruitless.

“They are members of this household,” Hannibal remarked, tying an apron around his waist, “They’ll eat as such.” 

Will smiled once again, standing up and walking behind the man before pressing a kiss against the side of his neck. Then he walked into the mud room, grabbing the metal crate. “Well, Woodruff, how about we get you ready to meet the gang?” He asked. 

That night, Will left bed and washed his face, staring at himself in the mirror. He was battling a strong sense of internal crisis, it welled up and swole deep within his belly, growing larger with each step he took toward oneness with Hannibal. Several splashes of cold water later, he was feeling somewhat better. As he turned around, facing the hamper full of Hannibal’s laundry he noticed the trousers the man had been wearing that morning, before Will had left for work. Not the same trousers he’d had on upon Will’s arrival home. On the pant legs was a fine dusting of curly black dog fur, camouflaging itself against the dark threads of the trousers. 

With a breathy chuckle, he placed the trousers down and went back to bed, dodging the strewn about occupied dog beds and wondering just how many more dogs Hannibal would bring back before he realised that Will knew.


End file.
